


early and out

by loganes



Series: the space between blue lines [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6695644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loganes/pseuds/loganes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan grits his teeth, irked by it, never happy with being ignored, but he reminds himself it was probably a fluke play anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	early and out

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ellie for the beta.

It’s his first day in front of the media during training camp and Dylan feels like they’re easing him into it, softball questions like “who are you most excited to play with” and “what number would you like to wear”—his answers are MacKinnon and 11, respectively—until someone throws out, “What’s it like to be part of an organization infamous for its one-and-done Cup season three years ago, and how are you going to bring the team out of this rut?” and Dylan’s teeth clack shut. 

The reporter’s young and pimply, looks barely older than Dylan himself, and Dylan wants to flip him the finger and ignore the question. Instead he stumbles over a vague answer about how he’s looking forward to the upcoming season and that it’s a team effort. He thinks he might black out for a bit until they herd him out of the room with a hesitant pat on the shoulder. 

The day goes downhill from there.

*

Coach Lindberg puts him on the top line with McNamara from the get-go. Dylan doesn’t have time to be nervous about it, because it becomes increasingly clear that McNamara isn’t even going to pass to him, let alone give him a chance to impress anyone. Any lingering awe at playing with one of the best centers in the world dissipates fast; McNamara is greedy with the puck every time he wins the face off, only occasionally passing to Turner on his left, and he ignores Dylan completely. If Dylan didn’t know better he’d say McNamara was trying to prove something, but everything he’s heard just points to the guy being an asshole. McNamara keeps it up for a few plays until Coach catches on, and when the whistle goes off, shrill, Dylan wheels around to find McNamara, pissed as hell. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, quiet enough that they don’t draw a lot of attention. It’s still early, _day one_ , and Dylan’s not trying to make any enemies, but jesus. “Fucking pass to me out there.”

McNamara almost looks surprised for a split second before he sneers at him, a look of derision on his face like Dylan’s not even worth his time. “Think just because you went first you get to talk to me like that? I’m just doing my job. Maybe if you did yours you’d get the puck.”

Dylan’s mouth falls open at the sheer bullshit of it, but now some of the other guys are looking, so he snaps his mouth shut quickly. “It’s not a one-man team,” he says finally, fingers flexing in his gloves. He really, really tries to stop himself from saying anything else, but he can’t help it, irrationally irritated by McNamara’s attitude. “You might’ve made the playoffs more than once if you gave the puck to your teammates more than the other team’s d-men.” 

It’s almost worth it, watching McNamara’s eyes go wide, but then he grins and it’s not the pretty smile the media’s always waxing on about. This one’s all teeth, doesn’t reach his eyes, and Dylan thinks, _fuck._

“This is a passing play, so get your shit together and pass,” Lindberg yells over at them, like it’s anyone’s fault but McNamara’s. It’s the next rotation’s turn, at least, so Dylan has time to stand along the boards and seethe quietly to himself. He relaxes a little watching everyone else play, trying to keep track of holes in the defense he notices, small tweaks in offensive moves. Certainly it’s enough to keep him busy, and he thinks back to that reporter’s question earlier, about playing for a team that’s had notorious depth issues and no playoff time since McNamara’s rookie year, as standout as it was. If it hadn’t been the Avs it would’ve been Detroit, and that might have been worse. For a first-overall pick, playing for a shit team is par for the course, and from what he’s seeing there’s work to do, but not an impossible amount.

“You got something against that mouthguard?” someone says to his left, and Dylan glances over at MacKinnon, guiltily dropping his mouthguard into his glove from where he’d been gnawing on it. 

“Uh, no?” he manages.

MacKinnon laughs, warm enough that Dylan knows it’s not at him, and nudges his arm. “Look, I just wanted to say— McNamara’s been having a rough time.” He pauses, probably because they’re both thinking about what an understatement that is. Dylan checks Deadspin pretty regularly. “Anyway, just, like… don’t take it personally, yeah?”

Dylan raises his eyebrows. “I don’t want to cross any lines, man,” he hedges, watching MacKinnon until he’s got the go-ahead. “But he won’t pass to me. At all. Seems kinda personal.” He looks down at his skates, not sure he wants his new captain seeing whatever’s on his face.

“I’ll talk to him later,” MacKinnon says after a beat, which is actually more than Dylan was expecting. The guy’s at least got to listen to his captain, right? Dylan gives him a weak smile and thanks him, and then his line’s up again.

This time, McNamara barely wins the face off before he’s saucing the puck over to Dylan, who’s of course not ready for it at all, expecting more of the same game of keep away from earlier. He gets it under control just in time, skirting Jonasson at the blue line and taking the puck behind the net, searching for a free lane. Turner’s caught up, but McNamara is wide open, stick on the ice, so Dylan doesn’t think about it, clearly doesn’t have the same hold-ups as McNamara does, and makes the pass. It’s perfect, and McNamara fires it off as soon as it hits his stick, upper corner of the goal, and Dylan’s breath leaves him at the beauty of it, brings him back to three years ago watching McNamara light it up in game 5 to win it all.

After a goal like that he’s expecting to celebrate, something, but it’s just him and Turner, McNamara already skating back to center ice. Dylan grits his teeth, irked by it, never happy with being ignored, but he reminds himself it was probably a fluke play anyway, and keeps telling himself that even after they do it again, and again, and again.

*

Most of the guys have filtered out of the locker room by the time McNamara comes over to him, probably by design given their one conversation at practice. Dylan prepares himself for—he’s not sure, really, definitely not an apology, but that’s what he gets.

Or what McNamara thinks passes for one, anyway, standing stone-faced in front of Dylan’s stall. “Sorry about those first few shifts. I wanted to make sure you could keep up. You need to work on your edges behind the net, though, or this doesn’t last longer than camp.” 

He makes like he going to leave, but no, Dylan’s not having that, and he stands quickly, half-dressed, to grab McNamara’s arm. “You’re not the captain,” he says, even if the assessment’s not entirely wrong, because he’s sure as hell not going to let this shit continue into the season. It might be cocky, assuming he’s making the roster, but—he’s definitely making the roster, and he didn’t work his ass off for this just to get talked down to by someone barely three years older than him. “I don’t know what your problem is, but get over it, because it’s looking like we’re going to be spending a lot of time on the ice together.”

McNamara scoffs, twists out of Dylan’s grip. “Yeah, I was just like you when I was eighteen,” he says, and it’s such a departure from that clipped apology that Dylan just stares, can’t figure out what to make of that.

“I’m here to play hockey,” Dylan says, a little helplessly, and McNamara just blinks at him before leaving. 

Dylan’s face does something ridiculous, he’s sure, but no one’s there to see it, and he finishes getting dressed alone, wondering how big the stick is that Ryan McNamara’s got shoved up his ass. 

*

The next day, Colorado media is eating their line up after practice, acting like Dylan’s going to bring hockey back to the Rockies with McNamara at his side. There’s something fucked up about that narrative, can tell by the way McNamara’s eyes are narrowed that he hates every second of it, but there’s not much he can do besides answer the questions as blandly as possible.

“Yeah,” he says, answering another question about McNamara, “there’s definitely some good chemistry, so hopefully Coach sees that and keeps us together moving forward.”

“And what about the rumor that the two of you got into a fight on the ice yesterday?”

What the fuck? Dylan’s smile goes tight on his face. It’s a miracle he keeps it there at all, because where do these guys get this stuff? “Well, uh, it’s always new, finding a rhythm with new linemates,” he says awkwardly, licking his lips. “But, uh, I can make it work if he can.” As soon as the words are out he regrets them, not quite the sound-bite he meant, and he knows that makes it look like McNamara’s at fault, the one being difficult. _Whatever,_ he thinks. Credit where credit’s due.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm (recently) on [tumblr](http://larraza.tumblr.com/)! This is part one of what's probably going to be _many_.


End file.
